I broke the cardinal rule of Saturday ski days: Lay out all of your gear, from base layers to helmets, the night before.
Instead, the busy morning rush to hit the slopes — and get to ski lessons on time — became utterly chaotic because my 9-year-old son, Ben, would wear only his blue socks, which had gone missing. The brown ones were too itchy; his sister’s purple ones, not an option.
“Look in his ski boots,” I yelled to my husband as I stopped the washing machine mid-cycle, thinking perhaps I’d tossed the socks in with the week’s clothes while trying to multi-task that morning. Heaving sopping wet darks out of the drum and onto our laundry room’s tile floor, I heard, “Found ’em!”
Problem one solved.
But then my husband decided he hated his helmet, which prompted a clenched-teeth, hushed-tone lecture from me, “Well, you can’t just not wear it. What kind of example are you setting?”
And my son, now pleased to have his favorite socks, refused to wear his neck gaiter: “It’s too TIGHT!”
Even 30 minutes later, when we arrived at Buttermilk Ski Resort, mishaps reigned. We got Ben settled in ski school, but my 11-year-old daughter, Kaylin, had forgotten her cellphone in the car. On our first chair-lift ride up the mountain, she dropped a ski pole, necessitating a stop by the ski patrol hut to ask for help because it had landed in closed terrain.
But once we finally pointed our skis downhill, on perfectly groomed corduroy under a high-alpine, bluebird sky, I couldn’t help but grin. That’s because Kaylin took off, skis tight and parallel, making turns with such ease — and speed — that I’ll never attain.
My kids are more confident skiers than I am because we’ve done these crazy Saturday mornings every winter for the past seven years. We’ve schlepped gear to the hill and left them with strangers in ski lessons since each was 4 years old. In our household, ski lessons are mandatory through age 10. Like wearing seat belts or clearing dishes from the dinner table, it’s just what our family does, living a half-hour from world-class mountains.
Though our morning rush might be nerve-wracking, once we’re on the slopes, we’re pretty laid-back. When the four of us ski together — on Sundays, or early or late in the season when the Saturday series of lessons has ended — I’m in charge of filming my son with a smartphone as he effortlessly skids over boxes in the terrain park. The kids laugh (and ignore me) when I suggest they stop skiing backward. They tell me to follow them through the trees, knowing I’ll refuse.
I’m content to watch them zoom down the slopes ahead of me. I recall when they were flailing preschoolers, and I’d screech behind them, “Make a pizza!” in the hopes they’d slow down before running into other skiers.
These days, they’re in control. Ben tucks to pick up speed on straight downhill shots. Kaylin goofs around and balances on one ski as she makes turns on groomers. Both fearlessly sail over jumps I’ll never attempt.
Like ice skating, skateboarding, texting and Lego-building, skiing is a skill they’re simply better at than I am. Watching them learn and then master this sport over several years — and have fun doing it — makes my heart soar.
And that’s worth several hectic mornings of missing socks.
Freelance writer Kara Williams lives on the Western Slope with her husband and two school-age children. Find her on the Web as ColoradoGal at .
